


Evasive Observations

by Katsnap



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-08-29 07:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8481187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katsnap/pseuds/Katsnap
Summary: Sherlock Holmes x Reader
After moving away from a dark past to 221C Baker Street, (Y/n) thought that she could live in her solitude for a time, get back on her feet and start over again.
Meeting her neighbors hadn't been in her plans, and she definitely hadn't planned on meeting one of the world's greatest detectives....who happens to also be an arrogant sociopath.
The relationship that slowly forms is both one of a kind...and potentially deadly.





	1. Welcome to Baker Street

It took everything to not scream.

Scream in frustration, in pain, at the overbearing amount of stress.

It took everything to just take a deep breath, unlock the front door and step inside to the empty, quiet flat.

221C Baker Street had only been home for a week now, but it felt more and more like and everlasting prison each day. The emptiness was what killed her, honestly. It brought back such dark memories. She couldn’t play music _all_ the time, after all.

(Y/n) shut the door behind her and looked around glumly at her flat. It was bare, and yet it wasn’t. In place of normal furniture, easels and cabinets filled the living area, one wall covered in a gigantic piece of canvas, the others filled with paintings. Some bought, some made.

There was a small corner by the window that held a comfortable lounge chair and a lamp, meant for reading. Near the entranceway was a stereo. The dining area had only a small table and two chairs, the cabinets desperately needing to be filled again. Her bedroom had even less, only a dresser and double-sized bed in it.

She lived with what she was able to buy herself, earned from her living as a free-lance artist and a part-time assistant at a museum.

(Y/n) turned on the stereo as she passed by it, by routine now, the soft sounds of a piano filling the flat. It brought a little bit of comfort. (Y/n) changed in her bedroom, out of the strict skirt, tights and blouse required for the museum and into her “comfort clothes.” Blue jeans, socks, a soft, fluffy sweater. Her hair let down from the strict bun and resting against her shoulders loosely.

She’d have to go out again to buy groceries, but she could relax for a bit. Hell, she _needed_ to relax.

As she settled down into the lounge chair, a knitted blanket in hand, a knock on the door made her pause and frown. (Y/n) waited a moment, to see if the visitor would go away. A following knock told her otherwise and she sighed, tossing aside the blanket and walking over to the door to answer.

A kindly and sweet-looking elderly woman smiled at her when she opened the door. She was accompanied by two younger gentlemen, both wrapped up in coats and pants against the cold.

“Mrs. Hudson,” (Y/n) gave a weak smile. “Is there something you need?”

“Oh, nothing too terrible. Are you busy right now, dearie?” she asked. (Y/n) shook her head.

“No, just got back from the museum.”

“Wonderful. I’d like you to meet someone. Well, two of them,” Mrs. Hudson chuckled, half turning towards the men. The shorter one had cropped blonde hair and blue eyes that were kind, but older than he probably really was. He had a young face, but it was marred with wrinkles. Stress wrinkles. The taller man had dark, thick curls and sharp cheekbones. His blue-grey eyes were calculating and observant, and honestly made (Y/n) a little uncomfortable, despite how pretty she thought they were.

“Of course. Whom am I being introduced to?” (Y/n) still smiled, despite her discomfort. She was raised to be polite, so polite she shall be.

“Your neighbors, from 221B. This is John Watson—“ she motioned to the shorter figure, who smiled and nodded. “—and Sherlock Holmes.” Barely even a blink from that one.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” (Y/n) greeted, reaching out to shake their hands. “Call me (Y/n).”

“The pleasure is ours,” John smiled, shaking her hand. Sherlock looked at her hand for a moment, then turned to Mrs. Hudson dismissively. (Y/n) raised her brows as she lowered her hand. Rude, much?

“Is there a particular reason why you’re introducing us to our….neighbor, Mrs. Hudson?” he drawled. His voice was a deep baritone, attractive and smooth. ‘Of course,’ (Y/n) thought bitterly. ‘The one I find attractive…ends up being an arrogant asshole. Story of my life.’

“So that you’d stop shooting at my walls.”

“Excuse me?” (Y/n) blurted out, alarmed. John looked a little sheepish.

“Erm…Sherlock has some…strange tendencies when he’s bored.”

‘Clearly,’ (Y/n) thought, looking at the taller man again with furrowed brows. ‘What kind of a person does that?’ (Y/n) wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to that, honestly.

“Oh, is that all?” he stated, feigning surprise.

“ _That_ and I’d hope you two would be gentlemen and help (Y/n) adjust to living here. She just moved here a week ago,” Mrs. Hudson pressed.

“Oh? Where from?” John asked, intrigued.

“America,” Sherlock spoke before (Y/n) even had time to open her mouth. “The southern States, judging by her accent. Most likely here to get away from family or possible ex.”

(Y/n) stared at him, stunned into silence. John scowled up at his companion.

“Would you stop doing that to every new person we meet?”

“What, figure out if they’re a threat or not?”

“….have a nice day, Mrs. Hudson,” (Y/n) pulled back from the door, intending on shutting it on her rude neighbor.

“Oh, wait!” John exclaimed, exasperated. She paused, peering around the door with an unhappy expression. “You’ll have to forgive Sherlock. He’s like this with everyone. It’s just part of his personality, he’s really not so bad.”

“Somehow, I highly doubt that,” (Y/n) drawled, glancing at the dark-haired man. He looked back at her with a slightly raised brow. “I have very little patience for people who enjoy belittling others.”

“I wasn’t belittling you. Simply stating the obvious,” he replied coolly.

“And so shall I—you’re an arrogant ass who’s only enjoyment in life is finding flaws and imperfections in everyone you meet. You probably lived alone for some time and got lucky enough to find someone to tolerate you for longer than five minutes to move in. And just from what I’ve heard, you’ve probably got some sociopathic tendencies. But I digress,” (Y/n) observed the two men coldly. Sherlock actually looked a little surprised and John just stared in silence. “If I happen to catch you two outside of my home, perhaps your curly-haired friend will remember his manners. Have a nice evening, gentlemen.”

She shut the door sharply, turning away from it. Faintly, she could hear Mrs. Hudson lightly scolding Sherlock with John piping in. As entertaining as it would be to listen in, she really just wanted to relax on the lounge, with her blanket and her book, for the next hour or so.

What a real shame that man was attractive. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got her in trouble last time, and (Y/n) wasn’t one to fall for the same thing twice. She would be keeping her distance, if fates allowed it.


	2. Measurable Respectfulness

The second time she met Sherlock Holmes, he was still an arrogant ass. But he seemed to have acquired a measureable amount of respect for her at least. Seems being blunt really did get her places.

It was a few weeks after their introduction, and she was closing up the museum for the night when in marched the dark-haired man, his shorter companion at his heels. (Y/n) managed to keep from groaning, instead giving a thin-lipped smile.

“Evening, gentlemen. I’m afraid we’re closing up for the evening, though—“

“Yes, I’m well aware. I’m actually here to speak with the curator,” Sherlock interrupted. (Y/n) blinked vaguely for a minute. Was the curator expecting someone? Surely she would have seen it on his schedule. Seeing her skeptical look, he elaborated. “This is kind of an emergency visit.”

“…he’s in his office,” she finally sighed, turning and leading the two men to a pair of ornate doors. The curator did like luxury. (Y/n) tapped on the door, alerting the curator. “Sir, there’s a couple of visitors wishing to see you.”

“I’m busy and we’re closing for the night. Send them away,” he barked. Sherlock merely stepped around (Y/n) and opened the door.

“Evening, Henry.”

The curator’s tune changed considerably, going from arrogant and annoyed to surprised and slightly nervous. “Ah, M-Mr. Holmes. A pleasure as always to see you. I didn’t know you were coming.” His eyes darted to (Y/n), who really didn’t know how to respond to this. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“Nothing of too much trouble,” Sherlock smiled chillingly. “I need to get into your archives for some information.”

“The archives? What for?” the curator asked dumbly.

(Y/n) bit her lip and turned away—she was trying not to grin. Henry sputtered a little, before clearing his throat.

“Miss (Y/n) will take you to the archives. Please, don’t dawdle. I have a dinner meeting to get to,” the curator muttered. (Y/n) resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but did as she was told, leading them downstairs to the museum’s archives.

“What kind of information are you hunting for, if you don’t mind me asking?” (Y/n) inquired, punching in the code to open the first set of doors.

“A painting has been stolen from a researcher’s home and the researcher killed. We’re trying to figure out what significance said painting may have,” Sherlock replied. (Y/n) looked at him quickly.

“…are…are you a cop?” she asked, a little incredulous. A muscle twitched in his brow.

“Consulting detective, God please tell me you don’t actually believe I’d work with those idiots,” he scowled.

“I didn’t. That’s why I asked,” she drawled, leading them to the second pair of doors.

“Why’s that?” John asked, finally speaking up for the first time since arriving.

“It’s pretty evident he doesn’t work well with others, just from his mannerisms alone. I just didn’t realize ‘consulting detective’ was a thing here in England,” (Y/n) shrugged, sliding her key card. The lights flipped on once the door opened, revealing the archives.

“If you figured that out, why’d you ask?” Sherlock asked irritably.

“I don’t ever assume. It ends up making one look very stupid when they end up being wrong.”

John grinned a little, glancing at Sherlock, who blinked at the back of her head for a full minute.

“…well, that’s rare,” he grunted.

“What is?”

“The fact there’s an American with _common sense_.”

(Y/n) sighed and turned to him, a deadpan expression on her face. “I would feel inclined to be insulted, if it wasn’t for the fact I actually agree with you. Do you need anything else? Otherwise I’m going to find a seat and wait for you to finish up.”

“You could leave.”

“Museum protocol. I can’t leave guests alone within the archives.”

“Then sit and be quiet,” he hummed, already walking towards a filing system. (Y/n) glowered at his back. ‘Why am I always the one that has to deal with the pricks?’ she thought sourly, moving towards the doorway to sit in one of the few armchairs scattered about the archival floor.

The man took over an _hour_ just searching about. (Y/n) finally asked if he had any photos of the painting to begin with. He tossed her his phone without a second glance. (Y/n) flipped through the photos, pausing at the painting.

“I recognize this painting. The curator lent it out to be restored, or something like that.”

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and turned to her, interest in his eyes.

“What do you know about it?”

“It was made by a rather nameless artist, back in the 15th century,” (Y/n) started. “Apparently, the artist made a set of five paintings before he killed himself. They were supposed to come together to create a map that leads to a great treasure he had hidden or had found and kept secret. Only three had been found, supposedly. This was one of them.”

Sherlock’s expression changed to something akin to childish delight, his eyes sparkling.

“Does the museum have any of the others?” he asked eagerly. (Y/n) paused, glancing up at him for a moment.

“…yes, but they’re currently….currently at the curator’s home as a private collection,” (Y/n) replied hesitantly after a moment, looking at him curiously. “You don’t think the curator would…?”

“Henry? No, too cowardly. Besides, he was paying the researcher to read the map. No, this was by someone who coveted the map and the treasure. Which means they may have the missing two paintings,” he said dismissively.

“The other two paintings have never been found, though.”

“That the public is aware of,” Sherlock pointed out. (Y/n) had to agree with him there. “But the question is, whom would know of the supposed map and hunt down the other three? Any visitors with inquiries about the paintings?”

“Mm….” (Y/n) thought for a moment. “…just one. A businessman from Germany, if I recall. Seemed really interested in the painting while it was displayed, just a few days ago.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“I’m lucky to remember mine most days. I do remember what he looked like, though,” (Y/n) stated. “He was about 5’10, dark blonde hair, balding at the top. Brown eyes, skin was a little red like he had a rash or was sunburnt. He had a scar over his right brow.”

Sherlock and John looked at her in interest. “You’re quit observant,” John commented.

“I’m an artist. I should hope so,” she replied, pushing to her feet. “I take it you’re done in the archives, then?”

“Yes, quite. The information you provided was quite sufficient, I think this case is just about done,” Sherlock smiled confidently.

“Your ego is showing,” (Y/n) drawled, leading them out of the archives and locking up.


	3. Three In the Morning

It was three in the morning. (Y/n) had to be at work in three hours. She should be asleep, yet there she was, lying in bed wide fucking awake.

Why?

Because a certain neighbor deemed it necessary to play the violin as loud as he could. _At three in the fucking morning._

She was going to break that damned instrument.

A particularly high note made her grit her teeth and (Y/n) flung off the covers, grabbing her robe and pulling it on as she marched out of her flat and stomped upstairs to 221B. The music grew louder the closer she got to the door and it took quite a bit of strength to make her knocking heard. The music stopped abruptly, leaving sweet silence for a few moments before the door was yanked open. One irritated face stared into another.

“…why are you bothering me at three in the morning?” Sherlock drawled. (Y/n) bristled at the arrogance of this man.

“Keywords: _three in the morning._ Some of us have work in three hours,” (Y/n) bit out through clenched teeth.

“…and?”

“Allow me to make this as monosyllabic as possible then—either shut the hell up or risk having your instrument turned into firewood. I want sleep, damn it, and I can’t get that with you attempting to serenade the dead.”

Sherlock stared down at her coldly for a long moment, irritation still in his eyes. While the stare made her a little uncomfortable, she didn’t back down. She was in the right and they both knew it. He finally snorted in disgust.

“Honestly, people nowadays have no appreciation for fine art,” he muttered.

“….You do realize who you’re saying that to, right? I’m mean, really? It’s one thing to play it during the day—I would love it if you did, really. But playing it at three in the morning, when people are trying to _sleep_ is rude and inconsiderate,” (Y/n) pointed out. “Do you ever think of anyone else but yourself?”

“Why?” Sherlock quipped, quirking a dark brow at her. (Y/n) groaned a little and pinched the bridge of her nose tiredly.

“I would love to get into this with you, but I now have less than three hours to sleep. If I’m able to function at all for work, I’ll be amazed.”

“I’ve worked with less sleep.”

“Good for you,” (Y/n) drawled coldly, turning away to go back to her flat and to her bed. “Now please, no more middle of the night serenades. Good night, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at her back, highly tempted in going back to playing even louder than before. It helped him think, after all. She did look rather tired, though…

Annoyed with his own thoughts, Sherlock promptly put away the violin and receded back into his Mind Palace. He’d let her win. This time.


	4. The Red Scarf

It was a bad night.

The day hadn’t been so bad. No work, so (Y/n) was able to focus on her wall mural, no disturbances from her neighbors upstairs, so she could play her music. No random sirens to distract her, no gunshots, no shouting, just quiet bliss and plenty of time to relax and just paint. She really should have just stayed home, but then would that have made it any better?

It went downhill when (Y/n) decided to go out to eat, instead of cooking that night. The restaurant she normally went to was closed for refurbishing, so she went to a different one about a block further. She was able to order her food, but the wait was ridiculously long and it was cold when it got to her table. By then, she was nearly fed up, but ate it without complaint.

Then her waiter chewed her out for not leaving a tip. Should have worked faster then, bud. After that, (Y/n) really just wanted to go back home and keep painting. No, no. Too easy. She was harassed by some young bloods looking to score (and failing miserably) for about two blocks, then ended up breaking her sandal when her foot slipped off the sidewalk.

(Y/n) was _really_ just wanting to go home and relax then.

Of course, life can’t ever just through straight and true anymore for her. What was the saying again? Anything that can go wrong, will?

The first thing (Y/n) noticed upon reaching home was that her door was unlocked…and open. That was alarming in itself. The second was that it was dead silent. She had left the radio on when she went out to eat, as she hadn’t intended on being gone for so long. (Y/n) quietly pulled out her phone, pushing open the door carefully and peering in.

Nothing looked disturbed or out of place, oddly enough, but it was dark and the atmosphere made (Y/n) feel tense. She stepped inside a little, peering around cautiously, inching towards the end table where her flashlight was. She was careful to avoid making noise, not wanting to alert anyone, if there _was_ anyone else in the flat.

She got about halfway there when she felt more than heard movement behind her and turned halfway before something feeling much like a scarf wrapped around her throat. She shouted out in alarm before it tightened and she was unable to breathe.

It was a fierce and violent struggle, (Y/n) trying to both remove the object strangling her and make as much noise as possible in a desperate attempt to grab someone’s attention. She shoved back hard against her attacker and managed to slam them back against the wall, creating a loud bang that echoed through the flat. They swore vehemently in her ear and tried to force her to the ground.

She was starting to lose strength and oxygen very quickly when she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps marching down the stairs—by some luck, either John or Sherlock had been home. If the muttering was anything to go by, it was Sherlock. (Y/n) used the last of her strength to throw back her attacker again into the wall, creating another loud bang.

Sherlock paused outside the door, realizing it was open and dark inside, before the door slammed open suddenly and the room was filled with light that blinded (Y/n). She felt a hand grab her, the other cracking into her attacker’s face, and then air, blissful air, filled her lungs. She gasped, stumbling as she was yanked away. (Y/n) fell to the floor, coughing and choking as the sound of a vicious scuffle took place just behind her. Her vision slowly started to clear as oxygen returned to her brain and she pushed herself up to glance behind her at the fight going on.

Sherlock was taller than her attacker, but not much bigger in body mass, so it was actually a fairly even match. The detective managed to slam the attacker against the wall with enough force to daze him, before he cold-clocked him again in the face. The figure slumped to the floor in an ungraceful pile.

(Y/n) coughed again and stumbled to her feet, grasping her throat to pull off the fabric that had previously been strangling her. She jumped when a hand pulled it the rest of the way off. Sherlock had moved over to her, frowning deeply.

“A red silk scarf. Another one,” he muttered quietly. (Y/n) just looked at him blankly for a long moment. He dismissed her look, instead hooking the scarf over his arm, before grasping her jaw carefully and tilting her head back. “You were very lucky I happened to be home.”

“Yes…I realize that….” She rasped out, wincing a little in pain. She swallowed painfully as Sherlock’s fingers brushed against her throat.

“Rest your voice, you’ll be needing it. Where’s your phone?” he asked. (Y/n) glanced towards the floor where the device had fallen from her grasp. Sherlock pulled away from her and scooped it up, punching in a number.

(Y/n) sat down on her lounge chair as Sherlock kept an eye on the knocked out attacker.

“Lestrade, I need you to send your least irritating officers--again. There’s been an attack on 221C Baker Street.”

Sherlock hung up and handed the phone back, before he made quick work in making sure when the attacker woke up, he wouldn’t be able to run.

“Sherlock, what is going on?” (Y/n) asked, her voice still a little rough. She coughed again from the strain.

“For what reason would someone want to kill you?” he asked, ignoring her question. (Y/n) quirked a brow at him.

“Here or back in America?” she drawled.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s a reason why in America, but I want to know why someone would want to kill a freelance artist and part-time museum employee, who knows no one?” Sherlock snorted. (Y/n) glowered at him.

“I didn’t realize I was supposed to do your job.”

“Have you angered anyone lately?”

“Aside from some teenagers hoping to get lucky tonight? No,” she cleared her throat uncomfortably. “As you pointed out—I’m a freelance artist and a part-time museum employee. Unless Mr. Henry’s been making some less than appealing friends lately, but I still don’t see why that should constitute to my death.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, going quiet as he absently played with the red scarf in his hands. (Y/n) nodded to it.

“What’s the significance of the scarf?” she asked.

“There’s been three deaths in the past month. All of them caused by strangulation of a red, silk scarf,” he stated, glancing at the offending fabric. “Though what it means is a little lost to me, aside from the fact it connects the murders.”

“Perhaps it’s not the scarf, but the color,” (Y/n) shrugged.

“….meaning?”

“Well, the color red is a very emotional and meaningful color. It’s associated with dominance and energy. It’s also a color related to sexuality, revenge and anger,” (Y/n) explained. Sherlock stared at her so long she began to feel uncomfortable, before realization lit his eyes and he slowly started to grin.

“Tell me, did Henry have many female ‘guests’?” he inquired suddenly.

“Mm…yes, actually. He’s kind of a lady’s man. His wife doesn’t like his frequent female visitors or that he has mostly women on his staff. She’s kind of jealous,” she nodded. “I hear a lot of their arguments.”

Sherlock smiled, looking over at the unconscious figure. It was definitely male, but (Y/n) had a feeling he had that figured out too.

“It seems you’ve once again assisted me in figuring out this case.”

“I’d say a thanks would be in order, but you did save my life,” (Y/n) gave him a weak smile. “So…who is that and why were they attacking me?”

“That would be Mrs. Henry’s brother, whom she sent out to do her dirty work. Getting rid of any competition that would keep her husband’s attention away from her,” he announced, rather proudly as the sirens were heard faintly in the distance. “I bet we can find red scarves in her wardrobe, too. Most likely gifts from her own husband, as a symbol of love.”

“Wait, wait. So Mr. Henry’s wife sent her brother out to basically assassinate people—women, I’m assuming….because her husband has a wandering eye?” (Y/n) asked incredulously.

“Yes, terrible reasoning isn’t it? I honestly am surprised I didn’t figure this out sooner…”

(Y/n) smirked a little bit at his unhappy revelation. “So perhaps the great Sherlock Holmes isn’t as quick-minded and intelligent as he claims, hm? Perhaps he’s not a machine, but human after all?”

Sherlock scowled at her, “Oh, don’t patronize me.”

“Oh, I shall. Seems you’re just as flawed as the rest of us.”

Sherlock glowered at her and she smiled back coyly. “It’s quite strange being on the opposite end of this, isn’t it?”

“…shut up.”

(Y/n) chuckled a little, settling back on her lounge as the police filed in. A bad night, perhaps, but it was a night that started something she wouldn’t recognize or realize for quite some time.


	5. What A Strange Friendship

(Y/n) had to admit, she had to give John props for being able to stand being around Sherlock for longer than five minutes. It was easy to understand why people hated the man, but it was very difficult in understanding why John liked him. It took some time to realize that, while yes Sherlock Holmes was by far one of the most arrogant and self-absorbed men she had ever met, he was also by far one of the most sensitive. Perhaps not emotionally, no he was a little detached from that (though he was learning with John’s help…that and (Y/n) caught him a few times when he thought people weren’t looking). But he was sensitive to people around him, their emotions and actions, his ability to _read_ people was astounding. He was able to read a situation and respond to it. Perhaps not always correctly, but at least he understood it.

Sherlock was an arrogant man, but he really wasn’t a bad person. (Y/n) figured out a while ago that he detached himself from people to keep from getting hurt—it was a protective reflex. John was different, so was Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, because they understood to a point and just accepted him for what and who he was.

A few times Sherlock offered for (Y/n) to join him and John on one of his cases, but it wasn’t until the last time he asked that she agreed. It sounded interesting and she wanted to see what he was really like out on the field, in his element. After all, he had seen her in her own, multiple times. Sherlock had gained a bad habit of walking into her flat unannounced when he was bored. She didn’t mind too badly, but it had been embarrassing the first time since she tended to paint in just a tank top and her under garments. He didn’t make a fuss out of it and (Y/n) eventually just got used to running around her flat with him inside while wearing almost bare minimal.

(Y/n)’s first impression of Lestrade’s work force was that they were not only rude, but also incredibly annoying. Anderson was just an ass and (Y/n) honestly couldn’t stand Donovan the first time she opened her mouth. Especially when she told (Y/n) that she should stay away from Sherlock because he was psychotic. (Y/n) promptly told her that she should go back to school and actually attend her psychology classes, if she couldn’t tell the difference between a sociopath and a psychopath, before following Sherlock while the female officer was stunned.

Sherlock had actually given her a sly grin, having overheard her reply to Donovan. The case hadn’t been too difficult of one and the consulting detective figured it out in less than a day, but the circumstances behind it had been fascinating to (Y/n). During one of Sherlock’s visits, she started asking him about some of the cases he had solved. Of his most difficult ones, the easy ones, the ones in between. He had been a little reluctant at first, if unsure that she actually cared, but when he realized she was genuinely interested, he began to talk more about them. Some were rather grotesque and he didn’t skimp on the details, others had bored him to tears, some had given him the thrill he searched for.

(Y/n) began to learn quite a bit about him, through these visits. Sometimes he’d go off on a tangent without realizing it, or automatically answer a curious question she’d slip in about him. She learned he had an addictive personality and had been in trouble for it. Heroine had been a problem for a while, before he was rehabilitated and instead looked for his high with difficult cases. He was also married to his work, with little interest in men or women, though that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a beautiful woman. Asexual, was the term (Y/n) remembered. He had a brother who he constantly fought with, and while he mentioned his parents were still alive, left it at that.

(Y/n) had to admit, the more she learned about Sherlock, the more intrigued she was by him. He had such a fascinating mind, and certainly was more intelligent than herself. It amazed her how he thought, why he thought it, how he figured things out. She understood it, to some extent, but her mind was more geared towards the arts than sciences and mathematics. Something he seemed intrigued in. How could someone _not_ think like him? How could they not see logic and instead see their surroundings, but not understand what they meant? Why interpret emotions?

It took a little bit of goading from Sherlock for (Y/n) to finally tell him her whole story. He had certainly figured out a small portion of it, but not the entire story. She hadn’t originally planned on leaving America when she learned her fiancé of three years had been cheating on her. She had just planned to drop him and be done with that nonsense for a while. But after the begging and pleading for another chance, though, came a darker and more violent intention. (Y/n) had dealt with that enough with her own family. Having someone whom she had meant to spend the rest of her life with do the same to her had been too much. She had to get away from the hate and the stress.

She hadn’t heard anything from her ex or her family since moving to England, and she hoped it stayed that way. Sherlock hadn’t responded once she told him everything, and she hadn’t pressed for a response. But there was an understanding now, and a higher level of respect from the man.

It was a strange friendship that had grown between her and Sherlock, but an oddly comfortable one.


	6. Spot of Tea?

“Sherlock, it’s one thing to enter my home _while_ I’m _here_ , but when I’m not, I’d really rather you stay out of it.”

The curly haired man looked at (Y/n) blankly from his spot on her lounge. She sighed exasperatedly and just shook her head, walking past him to her bedroom to change out of her work clothes. Once in comfortable clothing, she walked back out and eyed the detective.

“How’d you even get in?”

“Through your door.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she drawled, walking over to her radio. “How did you unlock it?”

“Lock pick.”

“Why am I not surprised? Okay, now why are you in here?” she asked.

“I can think better here.”

(Y/n) looked at Sherlock with a raised brow, but decided to just leave it at that, turning her attention to her radio and finding the classical station. Best not question too much, he tended to get cryptic in an annoyingly asshole-ish way. Soft music filled the flat and (Y/n) wandered into the kitchen to make some tea. She pulled out one cup, paused, then pulled out another for Sherlock. Best not be a rude host….even if the guest was uninvited.

She handed a cup to Sherlock as she passed him, walking over to her mural to figure out what to do next while sipping on her tea.

“The nose of the figure on the left is off center, just slightly,” Sherlock’s voice drawled from behind her. (Y/n) resisted the urge to throw a loaded paintbrush at him. Now she was going to have to fix it or have it bug her for the rest of her life. She sipped her tea again, picking up a white liquid pen to adjust the slight miscalculation on the mural, before turning suddenly and tossing it at the detective. The felt tip of the pen landed perfectly between his eyes, leaving a splotchy white mark on his skin. The man was too surprised to react, sitting there stunned for several seconds with wide eyes.

(Y/n) couldn’t help herself—she snorted and started to laugh, leaning against one of her stools for balance. Sherlock delicately picked up the pen and set it on the end table beside him, before rubbing between his brows. It just smeared the ink even more.

“I suppose that was well deserved,” he mused to himself as (Y/n) giggled even harder. “Better than a paintbrush.”

“I had debated on a paintbrush,” (Y/n) admitted, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, still giggling. “But I didn’t want to waste good paint.”

Sherlock grunted and wiped again at his forehead. He now had a pale white streak of ink across his forehead and between his eyes. (Y/n) burst into another fit of giggles, but picked up a clean towel and approached the man, crouching down in front of him.

“Stay still, I’ll get it. You’re just smearing it,” she chuckled, gripping his chin to hold him still. Those blue-gray eyes of his watched her carefully as she gently wiped away the white ink. “And yes, by the way. That was well deserved. But you knew that something like would annoy me, so why did you do it?”

“How did you know that I knew that it would annoy you?” he inquired. (Y/n) just gave him a look, grabbing his hand to clean off the ink he had inadvertently smeared in it as well.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, for one. For two, you know I’m an artist and comments like that will inadvertently irritate me. For three, you seem to like pressing your luck,” she replied.

“Guilty as charged. I wanted to see your reaction,” he stated.

“A pen to the head. Were you expecting something else?”

“Mm, no. I wasn’t expecting much of anything.”

(Y/n) looked up at him, her brows raised in amusement. “You weren’t expecting anything?”

“Normally you simply ignore me and continue on.”

“So when I acted differently, you weren’t expecting it. I’ll have to keep that in mind,” she hummed, standing up with the towel in hand. “Though really, you should always expect the unexpected. I figured that would be the first rule of deduction and forensics.”

“Perhaps for most, unobservant people.”

(Y/n) resisted the urge to roll her eyes, picking up her pen as she turned to walk back to her mural.

“But we’re not most people,” he continued. (Y/n) paused and glanced at him over her shoulder.

“’We?’ If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were actually giving me a compliment, Sherlock.”

“Hm, would seem that way, wouldn’t it?” he quirked his lips a little. (Y/n) chuckled softly and shook her head, twirling the pen as she waltzed away. “You understand what I mean though.”

“Of course. I’m not as stupid or as unobservant as the general public. You actually can tolerate my presence for longer than ten minutes at a time,” she hummed, picking through her brushes, her paints already open. “While I’m not in the same spectrum of intelligence as you are, I can still hold an intelligent conversation over various topics—mostly of the artistic and literary type. It’s the science and mathematics and languages that I tend to stop short at.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself, really,” Sherlock smiled. (Y/n) chuckled softly as her attention turned to her painting, Sherlock going quiet again to let her work and to let himself think.


	7. Holiday Invitations....Kind Of

With Christmas right around the corner, (Y/n) could honestly say her depression hit an all-time low. This would be the first time she was alone for the holidays. She had always valued family and friends above all else, even if said family was a giant pus-filled tumor of hate and her friends weren’t really friends. She had had her fiancé, but everyone knows how that played out, and discussing it further was beating a dead horse.

John was gone to see his own family for Christmas, and Mrs. Hudson was with hers. Sherlock was apparently planning on going to visit his own, much to (Y/n)’s surprise. It was even more of a surprise when he popped by her place a week before Christmas and told her to pack up a bag.

“Um….why?” she asked, furrowing her brows in confusion.

“You’re coming with me.”

“I—What?”

“Not repeating myself,” he sang as he walked through her flat into her bedroom. (Y/n) scrambled after him.

“W-Wait, Sherlock! What do you mean I’m coming with you?” she exclaimed.

“Just as I said. You’re coming with me to visit my parents for Christmas,” he stated, digging out her suitcase from her closet. She didn’t ask how he knew it was in there.

“Why?”

“Because I would like to have someone there who can actually hold an intelligent conversation. And keep me from possibly smothering my brother in his sleep,” Sherlock stated, laying the suitcase on the bed and looking at her pointedly. “Pack.”

“….Sherlock, I have never met your family before, do they even know you’re bringing someone else along?”

“My parents won’t mind, now _pack_.”

“What about your brother?”

“I couldn’t care less if he cared or not. Don’t make me repeat myself again, (Y/n).”

She stared at him for a long moment, a little stunned, but she finally was spurred into momentum when Sherlock started opening her dresser drawers. “Oi! Oi! Keep out of there!!”

“Seeing undergarments doesn’t bother me.”

“It bothers _me! Quit that!_ ”

  


(Y/n) glowered at the dark-haired detective, sitting beside him in the taxi that was driving them both to his parents’ home. While she was a little glad to not be alone for the holidays, she didn’t exactly appreciate being thrust into the home of people she had never even met before. Sherlock glanced at her now and then, his lips twitching every time he realized she was still glaring at him.

“You know, continuing to glare at me isn’t going to make me feel bad.”

“It makes me feel better.”

“No, it just makes you even madder at me. It does nothing to make you feel better.”

“Shut up, Holmes.”

Sherlock grinned a little, looking back out the window. They were nearly at his parents’, and he already had a good idea what they would be thinking. Most likely that (Y/n) was something more than just a friend (was she a friend? Was that what he called their strange relationship?), perhaps ask when they would expect a wedding invitation (he nearly cringed at that), that sort of stuff. Hm, he didn’t think about that….too late now. They were now at the familiar house he grew up in.

“Relax, they’ll like you just fine. Look who they have for sons,” Sherlock muttered to (Y/n). She merely groaned, but climbed out of the taxi to grab their suitcases while he paid the driver. She wasn’t too worried about that. It was just so _weird_ to spend a big holiday with people she barely knew—minus one. She knew Sherlock better than she wanted to at times.

The curly haired man grabbed his suitcase from her hand and led her up the drive to the door of the house. He knocked, his face that of clear reluctance and slight indifference.

“You don’t look too happy to be here,” (Y/n) muttered to him.

“That would be because I’m not. But it was either this, or have them bother me at home. It’s only for a week. We leave the day after Christmas,” he mumbled back.

“……Sherlock, they’re not going to think we’re…?”

“Most likely.”

“…Will this require some acting on my part?”

“That’s up to you, really, but it’ll make it considerably more comfortable for both of us.”

“…why?”

“Because I refuse to sleep on the couch, and I’m quite sure you don’t want to either.”

“Oh dear God, we have to share a room?!”

“I promise I don’t move much in my sleep.”

“I hope I kick you off the bed for this, you prick.”

“So rude.”


	8. Honesty is....

As it turned out, while his parents did indeed think they were in some form of an intimate relationship…they were really quite lovely people. (Y/n) was surprised, honestly, considering how Sherlock turned out. Then again, Sherlock’s intelligence had a lot to do with his attitude. His intelligence, and apparently his older brother, whom she had yet to meet. Wasn’t really sure she wanted to meet him, truth be told.

Still, (Y/n) could at least enjoy herself a little bit—it was really quite entertaining watching Sherlock squirm when his mother would bring up their “relationship.” She had decided in just saying they were “trying to see if it would work out” and letting them make their own conclusions.

(Y/n) would always be sure to send him a sly grin, too, when the subject was broached and Sherlock grew uncomfortable. There wasn’t a lot one could do to make the man uncomfortable, but apparently having to fake a relationship of some form in front of his parents was one of those.

“You know, I’m starting to think you should have just told them the truth,” Sherlock drawled as she walked into their shared bedroom, drying off her hair. “They think there’s more to this ‘working it out’ relationship than we’re telling.”

(Y/n) grinned at him wickedly, tossing the towel over the back of a chair and digging out her hair brush to run through her hair. “Maybe you should have thought about how uncomfortable I would be spending holidays with practical strangers.”

“That’s a completely different thing entirely!”

“You’re uncomfortable putting up an act in front of your parents, I’m uncomfortable around people in general. So you get to suffer for a week,” she pointed at him with her hairbrush. The man actually pouted, leaning back against the headboard of the bed. “At least we can sleep on a bed.”

“Yes, thank goodness.”

“That couch is terrible, no offense on your parents.”

“They’re attached to it. Apparently it was my _grandmother’s._ ”

“Sentimental value rather than actual comfort. It could at least go in storage, then…” (Y/n) sighed sitting down on the other side of the bed, running her brush through her hair until it ran through without catching on any knots. She pulled off a band from the handle of her brush and proceeded to braid her hair back. “I’ll be honest, this is probably going to make me a lot more comfortable around you than I most likely should be.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“We’re sharing a room, sleeping in the same bed, and you brought me to visit your family for the holidays.”

“I meant the comfort thing, but yes that does point out the reasoning for it.”

“Truthfully, there are times you make me a little nervous.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise. “Do I?”

“I’m amazed you never noticed. Yes, you do. When you get too bored or too quiet in your apartment, I tend to wonder what on earth you could be doing. The gun shooting at the wall tends to make one believe in the psychotic tendencies, though in reality you show no such symptoms,” she hummed. “You also have a habit of going very quiet and very still for hours upon hours.”

“I’m usually in my mind palace.”

“Yes, there’s that. I’ve never quite understood it, explain it to me.”

“It’s where I go to gather my thoughts and overlook clues given to me in difficult cases. It holds rooms that I’m familiar with, people that I’ve met that help me straighten out my facts,” he explained. “I wouldn’t expect someone without the intellect to understand it.”

“I understand it just fine, actually. It sounds very much like an alternate reality your mind creates in order for you to recede into a quiet place and block out outside interference. I’ve read up on children and young adults who create such spaces after a bad traumatic experience,” (Y/n) said, before she paused and glanced at Sherlock over her shoulder.

“….no, before you ask, I have not. Not to my recollection, at least.”

“Duly noted. It’s also theorized that severely autistic people are sort of stuck in a permanent mind palace, hence why they don’t react much to outside stimuli.”

Sherlock looked at her for a long moment, interest in his eyes. “You certainly know a fair amount on the human psyche.”

“I needed the extra hours in college and I’ve always been fascinated by the human mind. Particularly, the mind of serial killers and mass murderers,” (Y/n) stated, standing to put away her brush. “Are you going to shower?”

“I showered this morning before we left.”

(Y/n) grunted and climbed back into the bed, lying on her back beside Sherlock. “….did you really bring me along just as an intellectual conversationalist?” she asked quietly.

“….I may or may not have seen the letter on your table a few days ago.” At least he had the decency to sound guilty.

The letter in question had been one from her own family, sending back the holiday card she had sent them, along with a rather short, but curt note telling her to not bother visiting for Christmas, she wouldn’t be welcomed. It had hurt quite a bit, even if it had been expected. She had ended up ugly crying for a good thirty minutes, much to her shame. (Y/n) didn’t look at him, frowning as she stared up at the ceiling.

“You had mentioned you had a bad relationship with your family. I don’t think I quite grasped how nasty it was.”

“My stepmother is the main culprit for it, but she somehow managed to get my father and two of my siblings to go along with it. My younger sister was the only one that really stuck with me,” she said quietly. “I never really understood why she hated me so much, but I dealt with it for almost ten years, right after she married my father.”

“At least one of them seemed to exercise the fat between their ears.”

(Y/n) snorted a little in laughter. “Careful Sherlock, you’re close to giving out a compliment.”

“I’m merely being honest.”

Curious, (Y/n) glanced over at him. He wasn’t looking at her, rather looking out the window on the other side of the room. His arms were crossed over his chest, hands tucked underneath them. He looked a little uncomfortable, most likely because it was very much unlike him.

“How’s that?” she asked.

“Aside from the lack of scientific, mathematical and linguistic skills, you’re a smart woman,” he started. (Y/n) deadpanned. He really couldn’t avoid pointing that out, could he? Ass. “You have a creative, open mind, and you have a good heart. Something I’ll probably never understand, but I’ll admit, it’s made it easier for me to interact and just act….normal. Not feeling judged for being a freak.”

(Y/n) sat up turning to him.

“Sherlock, you’re a lot of things, but a freak isn’t one of them,” she stated firmly.

“You seem to be the only one to think that,” he murmured softly.

“Why, because you have a higher intelligence than most people and enjoy solving murder mysteries?” (Y/n) scoffed. “You’re not a freak, Sherlock. A pompous ass, sure, even tactless at times, but not a freak.”

Sherlock finally looked at her, his blue-grey eyes staring into her, trying to deduce some form of lie. He found none.

“You want me to tell you what you are?”

“….I’m almost sickeningly curious, actually.”

(Y/n) gave a half smile. “You’re an egomaniac who fears failure on his own part. You’re an intellect with a mind that never quiets and only focuses when given something to focus. You have sociopathic tendencies, but you’re not quite at that level. You’re a good person at heart, but you don’t want to show that…because you don’t want to get hurt. Again. Like before. Someone’s told you emotions are of no use, and you try to suppress them, but you are only human. You’re a lonely man who’s frustrated with his inability to be heard in a world of little intelligence.”

Sherlock stared at her for a long moment, almost speechless. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“On what?”

“Your observational skills.”

“Oh. That. I’m not nearly as quick or accurate as you at first glance,” she admitted with a sheepish smile. “But given time, I can read a person pretty accurately.”

“It’s strange being on the other side.”

“Isn’t it, though?” she chuckled, lying back down.

“…thank you, though.”

“For what?”

“Being honest with me.”

“I make it a point to do so, at least with people I care about.”

Sherlock hummed softly, looking back out the window again.

“I’m going to go to sleep now. If I start snoring too loud or talking in my sleep…just poke me and I should roll over and stop.”

“I may record you if you talk in your sleep.”

“Do it and you can sleep on the couch.”

“Good night, (Y/n).”

“Night, Sherlock.”


End file.
